Save Myself
by xpriordeen
Summary: "No matter how hard he tries to erase the exact date from his mind, he feels it coming this year just like he did last year. It's impossible for him to ignore the two year anniversary of his father's death."
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Because losing a parent doesn't really get any easier as the years go on. Chapter One takes place in Season 4 between Episodes 11 and 12. More chapters taking place in subsequent seasons to come.**

* * *

Chuck told his friends he'd be leaving for New Zealand for the holidays as soon as they all cleared out, but he has a hunch that his plane will be taking off later than expected. It's more than a hunch, really. The sinking feeling in his stomach has been growing for weeks, even months. Ever since the weather turned cold, stripping the trees of their leaves. The same thing happened last year. Because no matter how hard he tries to erase the exact date from his mind, he feels it coming this year just like he did last year. It's impossible for him to ignore the two year anniversary of his father's death.

He thinks he's been doing a good job of holding himself together, but with that dreaded day right around the corner, he feels himself slipping more and more every minute. Cracking, like a glass that gets chipped. It starts with a small fissure, but it grows and spreads until the whole thing shatters into shards. And this year, there's no Blair to glue him back together. He has to do it himself. Well, that isn't entirely true.

He's glad they're speaking again. More than glad. He thinks it's a small miracle. He wants to thank God for it. Almost. But their relationship is still … complicated. They didn't exactly end things on a platonic note after the Saints and Sinners Ball. With the way she was talking about them and the future, he can't help but feel hopeful that they have a shot at being together again one day. Not right now. They need to focus on themselves, not on each other. But maybe soon.

* * *

As it turns out, Blair's finding it surprisingly hard to focus on herself. She almost forgets Bart's two-year mark. Almost. After she leaves Chuck's place that night, something nags at her. She dismisses it as the normal jitters she gets after spending too much time with him, but it keeps her up all night. It's not until she wakes up the next morning that she somehow remembers what day it is. It's like alarms are going off in her head and she can't silence them, no matter how hard she tries. She knows Chuck's suffering. She can just tell. So she sends him a text.

 _Hey_ , is all it says.

Then, a couple of hours later: _How's New Zealand?_

When, at midday, he still hasn't replied, she fires off a couple of question marks.

She tries to convince herself his phone is off because he's on the plane, or he's adjusting to the time difference, or he's having so much fun on his vacation he simply doesn't have the time to text her back. But she still feels uneasy, so she decides to stop by his place anyway. It can't hurt, she reasons. If he's not there, the front desk will tell her, and she'll drop it. But, when she asks for Mr. Bass, they send her right up to his room. She finds him passed out on his couch, clad in silk pajamas halfway through the afternoon.

* * *

His father is calling his name. No, that's not right. His father is dead. He groans, needing the voice to shut up.

He tried not to get drunk last night. He really did. But after pacing the penthouse for hours, watching the clock slowly tick towards midnight, thinking about how Lily betrayed him by trying to sell his father's business, his legacy, he's so worked up he's afraid if he doesn't have a drink, he'll put his fist through the wall. So he shakily pours himself a glass of Scotch. And, as always, it calms him down. So he has another and another and another until he stops seeing his father's disapproving face staring back at him in the mirror. Which he punches anyway, bloodying his knuckles. He tries to make his way to the first aid kit in his kitchen, but he's waylaid by the unfinished bottle of Scotch. He drains it, but finds he's unable to make it off the couch. So he closes his eyes and tries to forget the misery that is his life. His last thought before he blacks out isn't of his departed father, but, as usual, of Blair's face.

When he comes to, he thinks he's still imagining her. The light from the lamp above him is making him nauseous, so he closes his eyes again, but he still hears the voice calling his name. He forces his eyes open again when he realizes the voice is Blair's.

"What are you doing here?" He asks.

"I could ask you the same. You're supposed to be in New Zealand."

"I will be. Tomorrow."

He sits up, ashamed she found him passed out alone on his couch, although she's seen him looking much worse for the wear.

"Why didn't you leave last night?"

"I don't like flying drunk."

"Chuck," she starts, using that motherly tone she reserves for when she knows he's hurting, which automatically makes him defensive.

"Blair," he mimics. "You didn't answer my question. Why are you here?"

"I … I don't really know."

"Well then I suggest you get out."

"Not until I see you still have the ability to stand."

He pushes himself off the couch and almost vomits.

"Happy?" He asks.

"Not exactly."

He looks at his watch and lies to her about having a business meeting, hoping she'll leave him alone so he can get drunk again. He's a firm believer that the best cure for a hangover is more alcohol.

She can spot one of his lies from a mile away, though, so she just walks closer to him and tells him she knows that isn't true. He tries to escape to his bedroom, but before he can close the door, she stops him with a hand on his bicep.

"I know what day it is," she says.

Just like last year. Except last year, they were a couple. Last year, she called him all day and refused to let him push her away. She talked him back down to sanity and stayed with him all night, even though his tossing and turning kept them both awake. This year, she owes him nothing. She's not his girlfriend. There's no reason for her to stay.

So they linger in the doorway, just like last year. Except this year, she has nothing to lose, so she doesn't let him tell her to get out.

"I want to leave," she tells him. "But I can't."

"You're not my girlfriend," he tells her somewhat ironically. It's what he said to her the day his father died, before they even started dating.

She tells him what she told him two years ago.

"But I am me. And you're you. We're Chuck and Blair. Blair and Chuck."

"I thought we weren't anymore," he says.

"We're not. Not exactly. But that doesn't mean I won't always be here for you."

"I don't need you," he tries.

"You're a liar."

She takes a step closer to him and he holds up a hand for her to stop. When she catches a glimpse of his cutup knuckles, she's all over him.

"What is this? What happened? What did you do?"

His eyes betray him, flashing towards his broken mirror.

Her concerns catch in her throat when she sees the shattered glass.

"I know you don't need me," she says. "But I want to be here. You need a friend today."

"A friend," he says, testing the word. It doesn't nearly do justice to his relationship with Blair.

"Yes. A friend."

"Okay," he sighs.

"Good," she says, and busies herself in his kitchen.

He doesn't really know what to do with himself now that she's here, so he decides to take a shower, hoping it'll help clear his head. He's pulling off his shirt when she reappears in his doorway.

"What are you doing?" She asks, startling him.

"I was going to take a shower."

"Your hand," she says vaguely.

"What about it?"

"You need to clean it up."

He notices the first aid supplies in her hands and goes to take them from her, but she pulls them out of reach.

"Let me."

"Blair," he warns.

He knows it's enough. She can read him so well. She knows his tone is a warning, a plea for her to stay away. He doesn't want to lean on her anymore. He needs to learn how to stand on his own. He needs to take care of himself for a change. But she doesn't care.

"Just let me do it, Bass."

With that, she forces him into a sitting position on his bed and starts dabbing antiseptic on his knuckles. The smell of alcohol reminds him he's not nearly drunk enough to deal with the ghost of his father and Blair's all-to-real form right now. So he stops her first aid attempts and beelines for the kitchen. When he returns with the bottle of Scotch, she sighs.

"Stay or leave, Waldorf. I don't care, but I'm not changing my plans for you."

"What plans? Getting drunk off your ass?"

"Exactly."

"Fine. Just give me your hand."

She doesn't interfere with his drinking, so he lets her mother him a little. It's something she's been doing since they were kids. She's so maternal, and he never had a mom. So it worked. It's comfortable. He can allow it.

He's several glasses in and sufficiently buzzed when she scoots up to his headboard and rests her head on his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" He asks.

She's silent for a few seconds before she replies.

"If I'm making things worse, I'll leave," she tells him.

"Don't," he says, afraid to be alone but hating himself for his inability to force her out so he can stand on his own.

"We don't even have to talk," she says. "I know you don't want to talk about it."

The funny thing is, this year, he kind of does. He's spent a long time pushing people away, but he's learned he can't do that to Blair. Not just because she refuses to let him, but because he needs her even if he doesn't want to. Still, he finishes half the bottle before he actually speaks.

"I kind of miss the bastard," he says. "Is that sick?"

"No," Blair says immediately. "He's your father. You should miss him."

"He wouldn't miss me. If I died and he lived, he wouldn't miss me. The most he would feel would be disappointment. He'd see it as just another let down."

"Chuck…"

She's at a loss for words.

"See? You know it's true," he slurs.

She pulls the bottle out of his hands and sets it on the nightstand.

"You're just drunk," she says. "You should get some sleep."

"I know I was a disappointment," he says, ignoring her. "Bart hated me for it. I don't blame him. I fucked up a lot when I was younger. I was a shithead. I didn't give a fuck about school, didn't wanna talk business with him, I mean, just look at what I did to you. You were my best friend's girlfriend and I took your virginity. What kind of fucked up kid does that?"

She wraps her arms securely around his waist, reacting to an instinct telling her he's going to try to leave as soon as she lets him go. So she vows not to let him.

"First of all, you didn't take anything from me. Second of all, I think it's safe to say that we can stop referring to me as Nate's girlfriend. And third of all, I thought we've been through this. You're not that kid anymore. You've grown up so much. You're …"

"Spare me, Blair. I know, okay? I know what you're going to say, but you can save your breath. Bart never knew me like that. He knew the fucked up kid who cheated on tests and got suspended for smoking weed at school. And there's no changing that now. Give me back the Scotch."

He hates himself for this weakness. He hates that for the past few months, he's been letting these emotions grow stronger instead of stamping them out. He hates that he can't just ignore this anniversary and get on with his life, with his business. He should be focusing on New Zealand, on finding Jack, on taking down Lily, but instead he's exactly where he was two years ago. Drunk, fatherless, and Blairless, but with her looking him right in the eye.

"I thought we were done with this. With you pushing me away."

"We're not a couple anymore, Blair. I don't owe you anything."

When he reaches for the alcohol, she pushes it further our of his reach.

"Fuck you," he mumbles, pulling a joint from his nightstand and lighting it right there on his bed. Usually, he goes outside to smoke, but right now he's just trying to piss off Blair.

"Fine," she says, pushing herself off his bed and taking long strides towards the door. "Get fucked up and pretend you don't feel anything. But it'll only make things worse."

"I don't know what you want from me, Blair! You say you can't be with me, but then you come over here and pull this shit! So either …"

The room spins a little and he loses his train of thought.

"Either what?"

"Either you love me enough to make sacrifices to be with me, or you don't. But I can't take whatever game this is. I can be your boyfriend and I can be your enemy at war, but I can't be your friend. It hurts too much."

The fight goes out of him and she's stunned silent, so he just pushes past her and finishes his joint outside on the roof despite the near freezing temperatures. He can't feel anything, anyway. When he comes back in, she's gone. It's a relief. If he's going to fall apart, he wants to do it in private.

Unfortunately for him, tonight is one of those nights where, no matter how much he drinks, he's not getting sufficiently drunk. Just feeling shittier and shittier. His vision blurs, but he can still see his father clear as day. Just when he thought he was forgetting his face. So he gives up on getting wasted and decides he might try to shower again. But when he passes his bathroom mirror, he sees Bart staring back at him.

That's when Chuck punches another mirror. His knuckles hit the glass for the second time that day, splitting even further. But the jab wasn't enough. He throws a cross at the already destroyed mirror, cutting his other hand. He punches the mirror until there's blood in his sink and nothing left but the frame hanging on the wall. He grips the rims of the sink for support, reveling in the burning sensation on his knuckles. He lets himself focus on that for a second. Lets it ground him. He takes a deep breath and then forces himself into a scalding hot shower. He stands under the spray for seconds, minutes, hours, until the steam finally relaxes his muscles and the tension leaves his body for the first time all day. When he gets out of the shower, his fingertips are saturated with water but his knuckles are still bleeding. He hears his father command him not to let anyone see him bleed. It shows weakness. So he doesn't bother to clean his hands, just wraps them, pulls on the single pair of sweatpants he owns and heads back out onto the roof.

He clutches the railing. The freezing metal bites into his skin, competing with the burn of his knuckles. He didn't want to do this. He didn't expect it. Everyday his father seems further and further away, his face fading, his voice getting quieter, so Chuck thought that maybe he'd be able to forget about him altogether. Or at least be stronger than he was last year. But if you ask him, the two year mark is worse than the one year.

At least last year, he could justify his behavior a little more. And he had Blair. He regrets getting angry when she was trying to help him, but he can't help but wonder if that was her only motive.

He knows their relationship is complicated. It's clear neither of them can make their feelings disappear, and he doesn't think he's being conceited or obtuse in assuming she wanted to see him more for her own sake than his. They have a hard time being apart, but he wants to learn. She's only made this day harder for him.

He shivers for the first time since he's been outside and realizes he's not wearing a shirt in December, so he goes indoors, turns on the news and orders some food.

He's halfway through his meal when he hears the elevator ding. He prays it's Nate or Serena or even Humphrey, but he smells her perfume almost as soon as the elevator doors open and wills himself to be civil.

"Hey," he says when she rounds the corner.

"Hey?"

He shrugs, knowing this isn't their typical greeting.

"You're eating," she says, eyebrows raising ever so slightly.

"You seem surprised," he deadpans.

"Do you blame me?"

"Not really."

She falls silent, so he goes back to his dinner.

"I shouldn't have left earlier," she says.

"Yes, you should have." He tries not to sound hostile or condescending, but it's hard.

"Oh," she whispers. "Well …"

"No, just let me explain. I'm sorry for yelling at you. I know you were trying to help. But you were selfish. I tried to tell you you weren't doing me any good. And I know I should have been more clear, but you knew what I meant. You know how I feel about you, how much it kills me that we can't be together. But I know we can't be, at least for now. So we need to learn how to be apart."

"You're right," she concedes. "I shouldn't have come in the first place. But you know how I feel about you too, and I couldn't stand not being with you today. I was selfish. So if you really want, I'll leave you alone. But I want to be here. It would make me feel better. _You_ would make me feel better. But it's up to you."

"Blair, you know I want you here, but I just don't think it's a good idea for us to be spending so much time alone together. Is this really easier for you than just giving each other space?"

"No, but I don't like to rip the bandaid off. You're leaving for New Zealand tomorrow, so why can't we just … have a time out for tonight? Let's just sit on the couch and watch a movie."

He takes a long time before he responds. First, he has to fight off any influence his father might be having on his thoughts. He has to accept that he's dead, and even if Bart died without pride in his son, nothing Chuck can do is going to change that. He can only make himself proud now. So then, he considers himself.

He thinks about if this is what's best for him. If he can really be alone with Blair so soon after they called things off without having his heart broken again. Because as much as he hates to admit it, when she left him, it destroyed him. He loved her too much.

"I get it," he says seriously. "You just wanted someone to watch _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ with you …"

Her stone-faced facade cracks, and her laughter fills the room.

"You know that's not true, you ass."

She collapses on the opposite end of the couch and reaches for the remote. Predictably, she orders her favorite film on demand, and he jokes about how well he knows her. He tells her she can't surprise him, that she hasn't changed since high school, that she's boring. She throws it right back at him, proudly letting him know she'll be watching _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ on her deathbed, and nobody, least of all him, will be able to stop her.

He doesn't believe any of their banter. She'll always be able to surprise him, she's grown and matured into someone so amazing since their teenage years, and even when she's on her deathbed, he won't find her boring. He didn't love her too much. He loved her with everything that he could give. He still does.


	2. Chapter 2

**Takes place in Season 5 between Episodes 10 and 11.**

* * *

On anniversary three, it's Nate who won't leave him alone. Blair, on the other hand, has been radio silent since the accident. From their friends, he's learned that she lived, but her child didn't. That's all Nate and Serena can tell him. They don't know why she changed her mind about being with him. And all he knows is that one second she was telling him she loved him, kissing him, planning their lives together, and the next the limo crashed, he woke up in the hospital and everything had changed. She changed. He needs to know why.

It's been consuming him. It's all he can think about. Every time he closes his eyes, he hears her saying "I love you." He sees her sitting in the seat next to him, and even though it's dark out, he's never seen her more clearly. He feels her lips on his and everything is okay again. But then the pain meds wear off and he can't feel her anymore, just that dull, post-surgery ache.

Memories of his father compete with those of Blair, and even though they're no match, they aren't doing anything to help him. So he takes a couple more pain killers and swallows them down with Scotch.

"You sure you should be doing that, man?" Nate asks. Nate hasn't mentioned Bart, but he took the day off from the rest of his life and made it his full time job to follow Chuck around the penthouse.

"I'm fine, Nathaniel," Chuck lies for the hundredth time that day. "I don't need a babysitter."

"Look, Chuck, I know between your dad and Blair and …."

"Don't!"

Just hearing her name is like a knife to the heart. It causes him physical pain. Thank God for the painkillers. He takes more than he knows he should at once, desperate for some kind of defense mechanism against everything he's feeling.

"Dude," Nate starts, but Chuck's already halfway to his room.

He slams the door in Nate's face and locks it just before his roommate can turn the handle. Then, he does his best to numb himself as quickly as possible, because he can't take another second. He can't take another second of his best friend walking on eggshells around him and babying him and looking at him like he might break. He can't take not knowing what the fuck happened to make Blair change her mind about them so quickly and with so much certainty. He can't take never being able to be strong. He can't take living in a world where he doesn't have a parent who might be able to offer advice or comfort. He can't take living.

* * *

When he comes to, he's in the hospital again. Nate's sitting on one side of his bed looking pissed and brooding, and Serena's sitting on the other looking worried and slightly confused. His eyes flash repeatedly around the room as if someone is about to walk out of the walls.

"I didn't call Blair," Nate says. "I didn't call anyone besides Serena. We don't need this to blow up and give Gossip Girl something to come back for."

As soon as she sees he's awake, Serena's perched on the side of Chuck's bed, making a misguided attempt to comfort him.

"But you know Blair would have been here if she knew," Serena tells him.

It doesn't help.

"How about we avoid any discussion of Blair," Chuck says.

"What would you like to discuss?" Nate asks somewhat curtly.

"I'd like to discuss nothing at all, if that's okay with you Nathaniel."

"No, it's actually not okay with me."

Before Chuck has the chance to reply, Nate's out of his chair and yelling.

"What the fuck were you thinking? Overdosing on painkillers? Are you kidding me?"

Chuck closes his eyes and tries to breathe while Serena encourages Nate to do the same. But it's hard. He's scared. And ashamed and guilty and just sad. He wasn't trying to die. He just needed a break. Needed something stronger than Scotch to shut of his brain. Just for little while. He wasn't thinking. He wasn't thinking that if anything happened to him, Nate would have to be the one to find him. The thought of Nate's concern for him only adds to the huge weight on his chest that he can't seem to push off. It refuses to budge, and it's suffocating him.

"I'm sorry," he says, eyes still closed.

The pressure lessens a little, but he still can't quite take a deep breath. Nate walks back over to his chair and pulls it closer to the hospital bed.

"What were you thinking?" Nate asks, calmer now.

"Can we not do this?" Chuck asks, desperately trying to avoid any discussion about how he might be feeling.

"Before my dad went to rehab, I was the one who found him when he overdosed," Nate says.

"I didn't know." Chuck can't meet Nate's eyes. "I wasn't thinking that anything like this would happen. I didn't mean … I just didn't want to have to think anymore. I wasn't thinking."

"I know you've had a lot on you mind," Nate hedges.

"I'm sorry," Chuck forces out. It's hard for him to apologize, to admit he fucked up.

"I'm just worried about you, man. I know you're seeing that therapist, but if you want ... you know you could talk to me about whatever."

"I don't need to talk."

Not to Nate and Serena, at least. It's not that they haven't been good friends to him. They have. But the person he needs to talk to is avoiding him again.

"How do you feel?" Serena asks. "Do you need anything."

"I'm fine. Any chance I can get out of here?"

"They pumped your stomach," she tells him. "I think the nurse said they want to keep you overnight."

He looks to Nate.

"You want to help me? Get me out of here."

Nate looks like he wants to say something, but hesitates.

"I'm fine," Chuck insists. "No more painkillers. I promise."

"Chuck …"

"I won't even drink."

Nate cracks and consents to go talk to the doctors. One drop of the Vanderbilt name and they agree to release Chuck into Nate's custody. The three of them ride back to the Empire in silence. Everyone is uncomfortable. Chuck is indestructible. This is unprecedented.

"You don't have to be here," Chuck tells them when they're back upstairs.

"I'm gonna go take a shower," Nate announces.

"I'll stay," Serena tells him when Nate's door clicks shut. "As long as I can order some food."

Chuck passes her the phone and she immediately calls for room service, ordering way more food than the three of them need.

"Wanna watch a movie?" She asks.

Chuck doesn't reply. He knows she's trying to do what she thinks he wants from her. Take his mind off of things, pretend everything's okay, ignore the problem. He appreciates it, but she can't help him.

"I don't know what you want me to do, Chuck. This was always Blair's area of expertise. _You_ were always Blair's area of expertise."

"Not anymore," he says.

He fills up a glass with water and deposits himself on the couch, thinking of the last time he and Blair had sex in this spot.

"She's really getting married," he continues.

"Looks like it," Serena says.

"It feels so … permanent."

"I'm not so sure about that."

He looks at her skeptically and the conversation dies.

They channel surf until Serena settles on _Real Housewives._ He consents because he's not really paying attention to what's on TV, but Nate insists on video games when he reappears.

So they play Mario Kart and eat too much room service like they did back when they were in middle school, but Chuck still feels sick and the whole situation just makes Blair's absence seem more wrong. They're the Non-Judging Breakfast Club. They're incomplete without her.

When Serena's Princess Peach laps Chuck's Bowser for the second time, she pauses the game.

"This isn't helping," she says, sounding dejected.

"That's not true," Chuck tells her. "I really am feeling better."

She raises her eyebrows in disbelief.

"At least I'm sober."

"You did just have your stomach pumped," Nate says.

"Oh, let him think he's accomplished something," Serena teases.

Chuck smiles for the first time since the accident.

Serena giggles a little and resumes the game. Chuck loses, but he really does feel better. He feels grateful for the first time in a long time. He's lucky to have Serena and Nate. He lost his father. He lost Blair. But he's not completely alone. He has his friends, who he doesn't even have to thank for saving his life earlier today, for keeping him company when he's sure they both have better things to be doing, for being loyal to him when he needs it most.

He's grateful for them, but they're not enough. He's forced to admit even Blair might not be enough to make him happy. He has to learn to make himself happy. He needs to stop obsessing over her. He needs to try to wrap his head around the fact that he may never know what she changed her mind about them being together. He needs to start accepting the fact that they're not going to end up together. She's marrying someone else. He needs to let her go. He needs to save himself. He vows to try.

"I'm going to shower," he announces.

"Do you want me to…" Nate starts.

"What, Nathaniel? Want to join me? I don't feel that way about you."

Chuck's typical sarcasm relaxes Nate, who turns his attention back to choosing the next road in Mario Kart.

After his shower, Chuck feels considerably better. He dresses, exits his bedroom, and informs Nate and Serena he'll be going out.

"Where?" Serena asks hesitantly.

"The cemetery," he says.

"We can come," Nate offers.

"No need. I won't be long."

"We'll be here," Nate promises.

It's late, but Arthur brings the limo around, and soon enough, he's staring down at his father's grave. He says goodbye. Vows to silence the judgmental voice in his head that sounds like Bart, but promises never to forget their fonder moments. He'll let the memory of his father motivate him to be the best person he can be. Swears to succeed in business like Bart did, but also to succeed in the areas of life where his father failed so miserably. Commits to making himself proud instead of his father.

Then, he says an even harder goodbye. He says goodbye to Blair, to the child that could have been his, to the life that could have been theirs. He buries it all next to his father. He lets go of the pain and the resentment and the heartache. He turns around. Takes one step away. Takes another. Keeps walking. Gets in the limo and drives away. Knows this isn't absolution. Knows he has a long way to go. Knows he'll have good days and bad days. Knows he'll never truly forget those he's lost. Knows he won't be the same without them.

He also knows he has to keep living, keep trying, keep striving to be better. Maybe next year, it won't be so hard. He has to believe that's true.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: So I fudged the timing on this one a little bit. When Gossip Girl was on the air, typically there would be a Thanksgiving episode and then the next episode wouldn't air until January. That period in between Thanksgiving and Christmas is around the time when Bart died, but since the last season was shorter, there wasn't that hiatus. So technically I guess the fifth anniversary of Bart's (fake) death would be around episode nine, but I wrote this as if it were a little after the finale.**

* * *

This year, it's hard in different ways.

He should be overjoyed. He should be out taking the city by storm, walking the sunlit streets like he owns them. Many of them he actually owns, or at least the properties on them. He should be kissing his _wife_ in Central Park. Celebrating Nate's success with the Spectator. Hell, he should even be going on double dates with Serena and Humphrey.

But he's having nightmares. Even when he's awake.

"Chuck."

Blair's voice breaks through his foggy conscious like it always does, even when she isn't trying to get his attention. He shakes off the darkness that's been creeping up and gives her a smile. A real one. He can't help it. She's so radiant, and she's his. Forever this time. It's all he's ever wanted for as long as he can remember. _She's_ all he's ever wanted. So then why does he still feel so empty?

Blair reaches across the extensive breakfast spread laid out in front of them in his suite and takes his hand. He glances towards Nate's room on instinct, even though he knows Nate is at work. They've been working on finding a more permanent place to live, since Blair claims the Empire "clearly needs a woman's touch," and Blair's place smells so floral it makes Chuck nauseous. Also, Humphrey's there panting at Serena's feet way too often for either of their tastes.

"Chuck, my love, what's been going on with you?"

He doesn't even know himself, so he just tries to perk up for her sake. Sit up a little straighter. Eat a little more. Focus more of his attention on their conversation.

"Nothing's wrong," he tries to convince her, bringing a cup of coffee to his lips to stop the wrong words from coming out.

"You don't seem yourself. And I know you haven't been sleeping." She pushes her chair out and rounds the table to deposit herself in his lap. His hand finds her bare thigh, peaking out from her silk robe, and her touch alone calms him down. "We do share a bed now, after all."

She beams at him, and he tries to match her enthusiasm, but clearly fails.

"Is it … me? Us? Do you not want to be married?"

This really gets his attention. He puts down his coffee cup and places both hands on her hips.

"Blair, how could you think that? I've tried to propose to you, what, three times? Four? I've been in love with you since we were kids. You're it for me. You know it. I know it. I bet everybody in New York City knows it. You make me happier than I ever thought possible."

"Then tell me what's wrong," she insists.

She runs the pads of her thumbs across the pronounce bags that've developed under his eyes thanks to his insomnia, and he softens under her touch. He knows now it isn't weakness. It's a different kind of strength. But he still can't help from breaking eye contact with her, turning his head, feeling ashamed, when she finally pries an answer from him.

"My father," he admits. "He's gone for good. I should be happy. The man was a murderer. He never felt anything for me. Never loved me like a father should love his son. But I mourned him once already. Spent years convincing myself that he was a good man, building him up in my head. I know who he truly was now, but I can't seem to pry my thoughts away from that rooftop. I see my fist hitting his face. And one of the last things he said to me … that I was his biggest failure … I can still hear it. And I know I shouldn't care. I wouldn't want a man like Bart to have any pride in me. It would mean I've done something seriously wrong. But the only thing I've wanted more than you, and for longer, is his approval. I spent my whole life trying to earn it, even after he 'died' the first time. So maybe that's why I can't help but think I was wrong to let him fall. I could have saved him. I could have grabbed his hand. He was my father, no matter how horrible of a person he was. And I watched him die. That last scream haunts me, day and night."

She cups his jaw and says his name like she does when she feels bad for him. Which seems to be more often than not. So he forces her off his lap and gets to his feet.

"I thought I told you I don't want your pity."

"I thought I told you you don't have it," she throws back, hardening.

He sees her get defensive and immediately knows he misstepped.

"I didn't mean it like that. I just … I want us to be happy. I want _you_ to be happy. But I'm afraid I'll only drag you down."

"It's a little late for that, Bass, don't you think?" She waves her left hand in the air, flashing her wedding ring. "You make me happier than I've ever been. I have no regrets about marrying you, and I never will. Whatever you're going through right now, we'll get through it together. Not like last time Bart died."

She's calmed him down, and he rewards her with a small smile before going to get ready for work.

* * *

They don't see each other again until they stumble home late that night. They both worked through dinner, Blair still running herself ragged trying to takeover for Eleanor at Waldorf Designs, Chuck struggling with the unprecedented transition going on at Bass Industries. Bart fucked up a lot of paperwork when he took the company back from Chuck. And now Chuck's stuck trying to get everything back in order so the company stays afloat.

"Why don't you give it back to Lily? Or better yet, just burn it all to the ground," Blair says as she collapses on her back in their shared bed while he pulls off his bowtie and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

"Because it's not Bart's company anymore. It's mine. I want to run it. I deserve to run it. Not for him, but for me. I'm going to make the Bass name mean something different in New York real estate now that he's gone for good. People will respect me. But they won't hate me. They won't fear for their lives when I walk in the boardroom. Maybe for their jobs, but not their lives."

He smirks and Blair gives him a tired smile as she slides her silk eye mask over her eyes. Still, she forces herself to stay awake until she finally hears him finish brushing his teeth. The bed dips beside her and she knows without removing the mask that Chuck's sitting up straight, back ridged against the headboard. Sure enough, his hand finds her hip like it does every night, when all she wants is for him to lie down beside her and wrap her up in his arms. But he won't let his head hit the the pillow, won't close his eyes until he physically can't keep them open anymore.

"Lie down?" She asks, tugging at his wrist.

He ignores her, instead choosing to grab his reading light and the worn, gold-bound copy of Anna Karenina she left on his nightstand after he confused some major plot points last week when she came to bed dressed as the Russian aristocrat again.

"At least try to go to sleep," she pleads, batting her eyelashes in a way that would typically have him melting, although he'd deny it if anyone asked, especially her.

But tonight, with mere hours of sleep under his belt in the past week total, it rubs him the wrong way.

"Blair, enough with the mothering," he snaps.

She glares at him and he realizes yet again that his anger at her is misplaced.

"I'm sorry. I'm just …"

"Tired?" She suggests.

He consents by finally repositioning himself so he's lying down beside her. She rests her head on his shoulder and her hand on his heart and tells him to focus on her breathing. She just wants him to get a moment of peace.

* * *

"Chuck, please let me call the doctor," Blair practically begs.

"It's the middle of the night," Chuck rasps.

"You can't _breathe_ ," she insists.

"I'm fine, Blair. It's just a cold."

"I'm calling in the morning. You might be functioning on two hours of sleep a night, but I'm not. I've been here before, and it was a disaster."

"If I remember correctly, it was around the time when you became friends with Humphrey."

"Yes, and I was clearly delusional from lack of sleep!"

"I told you I'd take the couch," he says wearily. "I feel bad keeping you up with my coughing."

"I can't sleep without you, anyway. Just let me call the doctor in the morning."

They've been miserable for the past few weeks. It started with Chuck's refusal to let himself fall asleep, which she didn't understand until she woke up to him mumbling in his sleep about dads and rooftops. She tried everything she could think of to get him a good night's sleep, from tea to Melatonin to the most aggressive sex of their lives, but after weeks of sleep deprivation, it finally started to show. Now, he has such a bad cough he can hardly take a breath, and she can tell just from looking at him that he must have some sort of problem in his sinuses.

She clings to him even though they're both sweating under the duvet and finally manages to drift back to sleep.

* * *

When she wakes up, it's to the sound of the shower instead of her alarm. Seconds later, she hears the water stop, and the door opens to reveal her husband and a cloud of steam.

"The sun's barely up," she moans into her pillow.

Chuck doesn't reply, so Blair continues to try to smother herself back to sleep. When it becomes clear that isn't going to happen, she follows the scent of coffee into the kitchen. She's halfway through the espresso Chuck pushed into her hands before she realizes he's dressed to the nines in one of his suits and ready for work instead of wearing the sweatpants he swears are Nate's and ready for a day filled with doctors and antibiotics. She finishes off the coffee before walking up behind her husband and wrapping her arms around his waist as he deposits his cup into the sink.

"How're you feeling?" She asks.

"Better."

She slips in between his arms and the sink and catches his face between her hands before he can turn away. He's still unnaturally pale and puffy.

"I'm calling the doctor," she announces.

"It's 7 a.m., Blair."

"I have the number for the one Nate recommended. He said he does house calls before the workday starts."

"I can't be late."

"You can't go in at all if you're this sick!"

"I'm not sick."

"Then why don't you let me call the doctor and he can tell us himself."

He stares her down and she knows he's about to say something that'll make her feel bad enough to shut up, so she goes first.

"Please, Chuck. I'm up all night worrying about you. And because your coughing shakes the bed."

"Fine. Call," he consents. "But if he's not done by the time I have to leave for work, I'm leaving anyway."

"Thank you," Blair says, pressing a kiss to his lips.

"You shouldn't do that," he says.

"Why?"

"Because I …" He stops when he realizes he just let her win.

"Because you're sick?"

"No …." he says unconvincingly.

She just raises her eyebrows haughtily and goes to get dressed.

* * *

Five minutes into the exam, Chuck is diagnosed with bronchitis and a sinus doctor prescribes a handful of pills and bedrest.

Still, he fights Blair until she's officially made him late for work.

"You're late now anyway," she says. "Please just stay home."

"You're late too," he points out. "We should both just leave, because the second you do, I'm out that door."

When she stops talking for two seconds, he knows he got her.

"You're really going to make me babysit you?"

"I know you won't," he says. "What would Eleanor think?"

She glares at him while pressing a number from her favorites list. Dorota answers in seconds.

"Dorota, go to the office and tell my employees I'll be taking a personal day."

She tosses her phone on the couch, crosses to Chuck, and starts loosening his tie. To her surprise, he lets her.

"Just spend the day at home with me. You'll get better sooner this way. No one's going to forget you're the head of Bass Industries if you take one sick day."

She finally succeeds in luring him to the couch, where he leans into her and calls down to dispatch one of his staff members to pick up his antibiotics as she pulls of his tie and unbuttons his shirt. Her hands on his chest and the knowledge that he's actually taking a day off finally drown out the frantic voices in his head and he falls asleep.

 _He dreams of blood, scenes from_ Macbeth _flashing in his subconscious. He sees himself standing on a beach, a woman's body at his feet. The waves that lap his feet are red. His hands are red. He can't make out her face, but he know she's his mother. It's so real he can taste the saltwater. He can hear the waves crashing. He can hear screaming voices. People drowning. Washing up to the shore where he stands. He sees Nate, Serena, Lily, all dead. The shade of red on his hands darkens. As he falls to his knees, the scene changes. He's up above the Manhattan skyline, his father dangling off a building, calling him. He stays motionless, rooted to the spot, until it's too late. All of a sudden, it's not his father begging for help, but Blair. Her hands grasping the railing. Her voice calling his name. He throws himself forward to save her, but he just ends up sending them both towards the ground._

When he wakes up, he's drenched in sweat and his throat is raw. He jerks upright so fast Blair flinches away to avoid them smacking their heads together. When he realizes they're in his suite and Blair's life isn't hanging in the balance, he lets his eyes flutter shut until he catches his breath.

"They're getting worse," Blair whispers, her heart in her throat.

He doesn't even try to deny it. She sleeps with him. She knows he's been having nightmares. There's nothing he can hide from her now.

"It's why I can't go to sleep. Why I can't take a day off work. If I so much as close my eyes, stop for one second, I see it."

"See what?"

"Bart falling," he says vaguely.

"It's more than that."

"My mother, dead. Because of me. The few people I actually care about in this world drowning or choking or bleeding out by my hand. You … dead in my arms."

He gets choked up and Blair flounders, in little-known territory even for them. She's only seen him this distraught a couple of times before.

"You're not responsible for what happened to Bart. He got what he deserved. It's better off this way. And as for your mother, I don't know if she's dead or alive, but you've made it this far without her. You have Lily. And you have Nate and Serena. And me. Forever."

"I don't feel guilty, but I just can't stop seeing it. I wish I could, but … I can't."

"Stop it. You just need time. You watched your father fall off a building. You'd be sick not to be haunted by it. And I'm sure the fact that you're practically delusional from lack of sleep isn't helping. So go back to sleep, and when you wake up, I'll be here. No matter what."

He relaxes back into her chest, comforted by her reassurances, and downs his prescribed medications with a swig of water, but doesn't fall back to sleep.

"Wanna watch a movie?" She suggests.

"Sure. Want something to eat?" He notices the clock on his phone reads almost noon. He's been asleep for hours.

"Tea and popcorn?"

It's an odd combination, but it's what they used to do when they were little. When one of them got sick, especially him or Serena, odds are their parents weren't going to stay home with them for the day. So the other three deployed emergency tactics to evade school, and they'd all curl up together eating microwave popcorn and licking the butter off their fingers and giggling because they knew their parents would disown them if they ever saw them eating _microwaved food_.

Also true to tradition, when Chuck comes back with hot tea and a huge bowl of buttery popcorn, Blair has already Audrey Hepburn on the screen.

"Feeling any better?"

He nods and kisses her on the cheek before dropping down on the couch next to her, because although he's reluctant to admit a few consecutive hours of sleep and a couple of antibiotics have already helped, he secretly loves that she's the only one who's right more often than he is.

Halfway through the movie, she breaks the silence that's so far only been punctuated by his coughs.

"Remember when we used to get sick as kids?" She asks.

"Of course."

"I used to look forward to it," she confesses. "All of us curled up together in bed. None of us fighting. No one thinking about whose limbs were accidentally touching."

"We all did, Blair."

"Everything was easier then."

"We were kids."

"I know, and I'm not saying I would change anything about the way we are now, but I guess I just wish we could have one more day like that."

As Chuck's putting his arm around Blair's shoulder, the elevator dings and Nate walks in.

"Hey!"

"Nathaniel," Chuck acknowledges as Blair gives a wave.

"You guys … stayed home," Nate says, confused.

"He wouldn't unless I babysat," Blair says with a playful eye roll.

"Finally called the doctor, then?"

"Yes," Blair immediately answers, never willing to give up a chance to explain a situation in which she was right. "He has bronchitis and a sinus infection."

"So … no smoking?"

Blair tries her best to look outraged, but even she can't help laughing a little.

"Well, I spilled coffee all over my pants this morning, so I figured I'd come home to change and grab lunch here. But if you guys want the place to yourselves," Nate trails off.

"No need to leave, Nathaniel. I don't think anything inappropriate will be happening on this couch today. However unfortunate that is."

Despite these claims, Chuck's asleep by the time Nate comes back in with a fresh suit and and sandwich for lunch.

"I'm glad he finally gave in," Nate says softly, sitting on the floor with his back resting on the couch by Chuck's feet.

"I know," Blair whispers. "I was really worried. But I think a day of rest will do him a lot of good."

They lapse into silence until the movie ends.

"He's been having nightmares," Blair blurts out, desperate for help. "I don't know what to do. I don't know how to help."

"You're doing everything you can. We can only do so much. But you shouldn't worry so much, Blair. We don't need you getting sick too. He'll get through this."

"Thank you, Nate."

Blair's fingers play in Chuck's hair as Nate picks up the remote and starts to channel surf.

"Aren't you going back to work?" Blair asks.

"And miss playing hooky with you two? I don't think so. In fact …"

That's how Nate ends up dialing Serena's number and sounding the SOS that Chuck's sick and desperately in need of more popcorn. Within the hour, Serena's stepping off the elevator with a new box of microwave popcorn and another of herbal tea.

Chuck wakes up to the sound of the microwave and the smell of tea leaves in the air. When he opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is Blair looking down at him with a smile. When he sits up, yawning, he notices animated characters on the screen and Nate and Serena sitting on the floor, clutching cups to tea, laughing at a Disney movie. He throws Blair a curious look.

She places a steaming cup of tea in his hand and pushes the popcorn bowl closer to him, tucking her feet up under her and readjusting to rest her head on his shoulder.

"You're sick. What were we supposed to do?"

"Thank you," he whispers, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I feel better already."

"Never thought I'd see Chuck Bass in a _wrinkled suit_ ," Serena teases when she sees he's up.

"Seriously, dude," Nate says. "Go put on a sweatshirt."

"Nothing can keep me from dressing to impress," Chuck says as he starts to re-button his shirt. Nate might be his best friend and Serena his stepsister, but the only person he's willing to show his softer side to is Blair.

"I like it unbuttoned," she says, earning a round of "ewwwws" from Nate and Serena.

"What? We're married now!" She protests.

"That's crazy, B."

Chuck smirks up at Blair and sniffles for the tenth time since he's been awake.

"Just blow your nose," Nate says. "The secrets out. We know Chuck Bass still gets sick."

Chuck rolls his eyes and gives in. Then proceeds to burn through the whole tissue box rather loudly within the hour. Nate helps him pass the time with video games while Blair and Serena catch up.

Blair consistently asks Chuck if he needs anything, and he continues to insist a day of video games with Nate is exactly what the doctor prescribed. When the sun sets, the girls order room service while Chuck and Nate pause their game to refill the teacups. Chuck spikes them all with Scotch.

"Chuck!" Blair scolds. "You can't drink on antibiotics."

"Nothing I haven't done before, my love."

The term of endearment seems to placate her, and she allows him to wrap his arm around her shoulder when they all reposition themselves on the couch.

"This is fun," Serena declares.

"Yeah, we know," Blair says. "We live here. You're the one spending all your time in Brooklyn now."

"And you're the one who's moving out of our apartment!"

"I'm married now," Blair says, still with an air of amusement.

"I'm not sure if I'll ever get used to hearing that," Nate says.

"Get used to it, Nathaniel."

Throughout dinner, Chuck stars dropping out the conversation more and more, so Blair orders Nate and Serena out as soon as the trays are cleared.

"Want me all to yourself?" Chuck asks, eyes half closed.

"I want you to get better," Blair replies, planting a kiss on his cheek. "And maybe I wanted you all to myself … a little. I always do."

"Good thing I'm all yours, then," he says at a whisper.

"Does your throat still hurt? Want some tea? A Riccola?"

"Blair, I'm fine. I'm not dying. Just … tired," he finally admits reluctantly.

She smiles because he's finally acknowledge out loud that she was right to some extent.

"Well, we should get to bed anyway. Missing one day of work is excusable, but two is unforgivable. You better be feeling better in the morning, Bass."

* * *

He falls asleep mercifully quickly, Blair wrapped around him like a vice. He's hot at first, but he likes feeling her touch in as many places as possible, and not just for sexual reasons. Although those are not to be discredited.

It doesn't last. He wakes up a few hours later, sweating and paranoid, although he can't quite remember why. It's better that way. Not remembering what he dreamed. It means he can close his eyes without reliving it.

He glances towards Blair, who's thankfully still fast asleep. His heart rate slows, a sure sign that he dreamt about something horrible happening to her again. Losing her again. But she's right there. Right next to him. Sleeping peacefully. He puts an arm lightly around her stomach and pulls her close for reassurance. She's okay. And she's his. So he can go back to sleep.

* * *

 _He dreams of carrying Blair out of the elevator into her apartment the day they got married. They'd been released from the police station with assurances that Bart's death will be ruled and accident. They were practically giddy with happiness as they made their way back, Blair's family and Lily desperately trying to make arrangements for a wedding reception. When they got in the elevator, it was the first time they were alone together all day. She opens her mouth to say something, but before she can get it out, he's kissing the laugh straight off her lips with reckless abandon. She reciprocates, pulling at the lapels of his white tuxedo jacket. Somehow, they manage to tear apart before the elevator reaches her penthouse, but he can't not be touching her. So he scoops her up in his arms and carries her over the threshold from the elevator into the foyer in his arms. He doesn't take his eyes off of hers, not even when he hears the voices of his friends and family. He doesn't care about them in that moment. Only her._

 _In the blink of an eye, Serena's childish laugh becomes a shriek. Nate's chuckle turns into a guttural scream. Dans hearty laugh transforms into something nightmarish. Dorota cries out in Polish. He even hears Jack and Georgina yelling with terror. He frantically looks around, seeing no immediate threat, but when he looks back down at Blair, she's clutching her abdomen, eyes wide with fear. Blood seeps out from underneath her hands, dying her ocean-colored wedding dress red. He doesn't know what to do. He blood defies gravity and makes its way up his arms. He tried to scream for help, but it chokes him._

When he opens his eyes, he had to blink several times before he stops seeing red and can convince himself he's not drowning in his wife's blood.

He can't help it when his fist slams the mattress next to him. He's frustrated beyond belief. Blair rolls over to face him, but doesn't wake up.

He sits up and puts his head in his hands. Why does this keep happening? Where did these dreams come from, and why can't he shake them? He briefly considers waking Blair up, certain she'll know exactly the right thing to say, but even he's not that selfish. So he thinks back to what she said earlier in the day.

 _You have Lily. And you have Nate and Serena. And me. Forever_

He has her forever. Louis isn't going to sweep her away to Monaco. Bart isn't around to threaten her life. She married him. Swore she'd love him forever. He can finally be done second guessing it.

She's safe and she's happy and she's here with him.

He repeats this in his head a hundred times before he finally falls back to sleep.

* * *

The next time he opens his eyes, it's morning.

"I slept through the night," Blair says sleepily. "You?"

"Like a rock," he answers.

He still feels a little short of breath and congested, but after a shower, he feels immeasurably better than he did yesterday.

"Maybe the nightmares were fever induced," Blair suggests as she applies her makeup in his bathroom. She adds a short lamentation over the fact that she doesn't have a vanity here, as she does every morning.

He shakes his head.

"I don't think so. I woke up a couple of times," he admits. "But I thought of what you said yesterday. About the fact that you're here, with me, forever. And I realized that's the most important thing. That's all that matters. As long as that's true, I'll be okay."

She smiles at him, one of her big, goofy smiles that she rarely lets out. When she does, it always reminds him of the first time he said "I love you." So, just like he did back then, he kisses her and says it over and over again. And feels happy.

* * *

 **Hey! It's me again! Just wanted to write a little post script to say thank you to everyone who's read and reviewed this story. It's been one of my favorites to write. Maybe more chapters will come, but as of now, don't hold your breath. But if you're a Gossip Girl addict like me and you like my stories, don't worry, 'cause I've got a couple more comin' your way soon. If you're wondering about _Medicine,_ that's on hiatus, but I really do intend to finish it one of these days.**


End file.
